Red
by Bookdancer
Summary: There's a reason Natasha cut her hair between Iron Man 2 and the Avengers. "There's red in my ledger. I want it out." major Clint!whump; minor Natasha!whump; Clintasha implied at the end; one-shot


_Okay, so I started this way back in... I dunno. February or March, that kind of time frame. I never finished it, and finally I sat down today and told myself that I would. So, about a thousand words later, I did._

_I do not own _The Avengers_, _Inova Fairfax Hospital_, or the medical information in this fic. I myself am not a doctor, and as such I researched and all of the stuff late in the fanfic came from a handy website called WebMD. Any OCs are not real characters and any resemblances that they may hold to actual people is purely coincidental._

_Update: eleven hours after publishing. Sorry, guys, but that end was really bugging me. I only changed a sentence, though. Literally, that's it. And now I'm happy. :)_

Red

Natasha Romanoff was not Natalia Romanova. Not anymore. Natalia had been a murderer, used by the Red Room to do their dirty work and expected to get away with minimal damage and to leave no trace. Natasha was a spy, working for SHIELD to fix what was wrong with the world and expected to get the job done to the best of her ability. Both used the alias of the Black Widow. Natalia was the murderer, Natasha the spy.

Both had one more thing in common that neither would forget in a long time. Natalia and Natasha had both been saved by one Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye. Natalia had repaid him by becoming Natasha. Natasha continued to repay him by saving his life in return.

One time, however, she had feared that she would be too late. Useless. And like so many names before his, _Clint Barton_ would be written in her ledger, dripping blood. _RED_.

* * *

"C'mon, Tasha," Clint wheedled, pleading clear in his voice, and Natasha rolled her eyes. She could perfectly imagine what he looked like at that moment: Blond hair was plastered to his head from the rain falling gently from the dark clouds above. His eyes, stormy blue with flecks of grey, would be peering through the rain, locked on her own curvy figure. He was perched on a roof across the street from her own position, most likely lying flat on his stomach to remain obscured from sight by all but Natasha. The gun that he had complained about using would be in his hands, and despite it having a scope he would only use it if either of them felt it necessary. A handgun was attached to his right calf in a holster, within easy reach but hidden from view. His bow, having been deemed 'unnecessary' by Coulson for this particular mission, was at the safe house with said man.

Natasha herself was dressed in a green dress, the complete opposite of Clint's own uniform. It was floor length with thin spaghetti straps and a low back. Black, toeless heels were on her feet, with black mascara decorating her eyes. Her red hair was curled at the tips, framing her face as it fell past her shoulders.

At the moment she was seated in her host's office, reclining on a soft, plush, brown couch. A party was going on in the first floor beneath her, but she pushed the loud music from her mind and focused on the black-haired man in front of her. She swept her hair behind her ear with one hand, signaling Clint to use the scope. Any small detail needed to be noticed, and as such she needed more of Clint's eyes.

"So, Dustin - can I call you Dustin?" Without pausing, she continued on. "Dustin, I just wanted to say thank you. I know we just met yesterday, so I thought that I should let you know I really appreciate this invitation."

"Tasha!" Once more, her partner's voice filtered through her earpiece and, not for the first time, Natasha wondered how a grown man could put so much whininess into his voice. But, regardless, she refused to give in. Nick Fury was her boss - she would not draw on his picture, even if Clint begged her to (which Clint seemed to have trouble acknowledging). The redhead shot a smile at Dustin and leaned back in her seat, putting her hands behind her head and, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn't see them anymore, flicking a middle finger toward Clint.

To her surprise, he didn't respond. She bent over at the waist and began fishing in the black handbag at her feet. Taking out her compact mirror, she flipped it open and looked in, pretending to be fixing her makeup. Tilting it so it showed her Clint's chosen position through the exposed window, she was alarmed to see that he was not visible, even though she knew that he was there.

She placed the mirror back in her handbag and looked up at Dustin. The smirk on his face transformed her previous, easygoing expression into a hard slate of no emotion.

"You didn't _actually _think that you would succeed, did you?" If possible, his smirk got wider and dark brown eyes got darker. "Oh, yes, but you did. Because you're the Black Widow and your partner is Hawkeye. But you must learn, _Jessica_," He said, putting emphasis on her fake name, "- that not all hawks and spiders are the predators. Sometimes, they become the prey." He turned away from her, and not for the first time Natasha caught sight of the eagle's claw tattoo wrapping around his neck. "And, oh, by the way - you can call me Talon. All of my victims do."

The thought of her being a victim (of _Clint_ being a victim) infuriated Natasha, and she threw herself forward. She didn't make a sound, and she caught sight of Dustin's face as they both crashed to the ground. It was filled with surprise, and she felt triumph run through her. She grabbed his head with both hands and twisted. A sickening crack filled the room, but Natasha felt no remorse. He had threatened her - had threatened Clint - and she had only been told to "take care of" Dustin Tall. The way she did it didn't matter.

With that done, Natasha crossed the room and opened the door, peering out. There were no guards in the hallway, and she felt a glimmer of hate toward Tall that was overshadowed by satisfaction. Obviously, he had - like so many others - underestimated the Black Widow.

Once she was moving through the hallway, she spoke softly. "Hawkeye? Come in, Hawkeye." There was nothing but silence on the other end. "Hawkeye, answer me, dammit!"

"Black Widow, what is your situation?" Coulson's voice filtered into her ear, calm and steady.

"Coulson, Hawkeye has disappeared from sight and is not answering his comms unit. Tall is dead and I'm on my way to Hawkeye." After a pause, she went with her gut instinct and added, "And call SHIELD medics. I'm afraid that we're going to need them."

"Copy that, Black Widow."

Natasha didn't bother to answer, instead slipping around a corner and entering a different hallway. At the end was the staircase that would take her back downstairs. From there she would exit the building and go across the street. Hopefully, Clint would have left her a clue as to where he was. Or, even better, he was still there and just hidden from sight. All the same, a nagging voice in the back of her head whispered, "And not answering his comms?"

She was halfway down the stairs when Coulson's voice trickled back into her ear. "Hawkeye's signal is still in the building's vicinity. He must not be able to answer."

Natasha stepped into the large crowd at the bottom of the stairs, once again not responding. The chatter of all of the people washed over her, but she ignored it. A man dressed in a dark blue suit offered her his hand, most likely wanting to dance, but she swept by with a cold expression. Another man hurried up, dressed in a black tux and wearing a scandalous expression, no doubt appalled by her behavior. But Natasha had seen his picture while being briefed for the mission - he was one of Tall's employees. Like with the first man, Natasha ignored him and strode past. Then, finally, she was pushing open the front door and stepping outside.

The heat hit her like the blast from an explosion, and she remembered why she hated going on missions in Virginia during the summer: because it was hot and humid at the same time, and often made the redhead feel like she was walking through a bowl of split pea soup.

Natasha set her jaw and plowed on, heading straight for the building across the street. It was at that moment that a grunt crackled across the ear piece, pain filled and obviously hurt.

"Clint?!" Natasha asked, picking her speed up to a sprint. She slammed through the front door of the building and, once again, ignored someone attempting to catch her attention.

The building they had chosen for Clint's 'nest' was a three-story apartment building. It was an old one, so there were no locks on the front doors, no elevators, and a total of four fire escapes. Clint had gotten up to the roof via one of the fire escapes. Natasha was going up the stairs.

"Miss, please!" The doorman continued begging behind her. "You are not allowed to be in here!"

"Sorry," She huffed, slamming the staircase door open. "But I don't care."

Another grunt came across the line, followed by a "Widow?"

"Almost there, Hawkeye," Natasha muttered.

"N… n… not on roof…" Her partner gasped, and Natasha came to an abrupt halt on the second floor landing.

"Where?" She questioned urgently.

"Shut up!" The voice came from Clint's end, obviously belonging to whoever had attacked him.

Clint let out another grunt, but still answered her question. "Base- agh!" His voice was interrupted by a bang and his own cry. He had obviously not been expecting the pain. Still, what he had said was enough to let Natasha know where he was.

"Basement. Got it." She turned around, ready to run, only to come face to face with something she was all too familiar with. The mouth of a pistol. It was held by the doorman from downstairs, and Natasha finally found clarity in the final puzzle piece of a puzzle that had been bothering her since Clint had gone quiet. Tall hadn't just owned his own house. He had also paid off the doorman of the apartment. There were probably sensors on each of the fire escapes, and they alerted the doorman about the presence on the roof - Clint. He, in turn, had alerted Tall, who sent over one or more of his henchmen to apprehend Clint.

"Tall's dead. Just so you know," Natasha informed the doorman. Surprise flickered in his eyes as well as doubt, and in that moment Natasha knew that he was not a professional - just a civilian who had gotten caught up in Tall's mess.

"I have to shoot you," The man replied, a torn expression on his face.

"But you're not going to." The redhead grabbed the black-haired man's hands, twisting them so that he dropped the gun. Then she pushed against the side of his head with the flat of her palm, shoving it into the wall and knocking him out. "Sorry," She muttered, "But I have to go."

She took the steps two at a time, Clint's ragged breathing in her ear urging her to go faster and faster. Natasha finally burst into the basement, green eyes alert and already scanning the room for a threat. She threw her body into a roll, going to the right of the door before her mind even registered the gun pointing at her. The same bang that she had heard over her ear piece echoed aloud twice, chasing her to the far right. Once she reached the right wall, she snatched her own gun from her handbag and turned, firing once. The bullet hit the man slightly off center in his forehead, automatically killing him.

Screams came from upstairs, no doubt from the tenants who had heard the gunshots. Still, Natasha ignored them and rushed toward a bloody heap that lay in the far corner. Upon reaching it, she lightly slapped Clint's cheek twice, causing his eyes to open.

"You with me?" She questioned, ripping a piece of her dress off and searching for the bullet wound.

"Yup," Clint murmured, his voice ragged but not weak. "Right leg."

With that information the redhead quickly found the wound and bound it. Sitting back to scrutinize it, she nodded. "That'll hold for now, but we need to move quickly. Tall's men will be here soon." Directing her next statement to Coulson, Natasha surveyed the room for possible weapons. "We'll make our way to the safe house as quickly as we can. Have our exit ready."

"Copy that, Black Widow," Coulson replied. "Hawkeye, stay strong."

"Got it, Coulson," Clint responded.

"Alright, let's go," Natasha said. "You ready, Clint?"

The blond took a deep breath and then nodded, slinging his right arm over Natasha's shoulders. The two stood slowly and made their way to the door, only stopping to retrieve the dead man's gun. Natasha handed it to Clint, who gripped it in his left hand with his finger on the trigger. They made their way up the steps in a slow, agonizing manner. By the the time they reached the top step sweat was dripping down the archer's face, but they kept going.

They rounded the corner at the top of the steps only to hear gunshots ring out. The two back pedaled back around the corner while shooting back, both aware that they needed cover. They were almost there when Natasha felt her partner's body jerk. Clint would have fallen back into the hallway had Natasha not been there, but even so the two thumped down heavily on the top step, Natasha completely supporting now deadweight.

Clint's head lolled on Natasha's shoulder, and she gently repositioned him so that he was seated as comfortably as possible on the stairs. She took a quick glance at his face to find his eyes shut and his cheeks flushed. Contrary to his cheeks, his face in general was pale. A quick check of his pulse revealed that it was slower than it should have been.

The next thing that the redhead did was make a quick scan of Clint's body. The jerk he had made had been caused by a bullet, that much she knew. She just needed to find it. Footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards to their right, and she sped up her search. Natasha finally got her jackpot in Clint's right hip. Blood was already soaking through the waistband of his pants, causing the dark material to get an even darker tinge. Once more, she ripped a piece of her dress off, thankful that it was floor length. Hurriedly pressing it to Clint's hip, she finally spoke to Coulson.

"We have a situation. Hawkeye has been shot again and is currently unconscious. This is Black Widow requesting immediate backup and medical assistance."

"Negative, Black Widow," Coulson replied a few seconds later. "Backup and medical assistance have a thirty minute ETA. What's your status?"

Natasha bit her tongue to keep from yelling at her handler. She knew he was only doing his duty. He had to stay calm so that she stayed calm. She took a deep breath before responding. "I'm fine. Clint is unconscious with multiple bruises, and bullet wounds in his right leg and hip. We're on the top step of the stairs leading out of the basement and there are at least five hostiles heading toward us, all armed."

Once she was done with the report, she stood from Clint's side and, gripping her guns, the redhead took a ready stance before the open doorway.

The first man appeared a couple of seconds later, and he received a bullet in the neck. The next one came directly after, but she still caught the murderous intent in his eyes when she shot him in the arm. She followed up with a quick shot to his chest. He kept charging, and she cursed when she realized that they were all wearing bullet-proof vests. He raised his gun and fired at her, but she threw herself into a roll and swept his feet out from under him. She got to her feet and took him out with a shot to the head.

Two more men rounded the corner, both firing as soon as she was in their sight. Natasha fired back, taking them both out with shots to the head. It was only after that that she registered the pain in her right shoulder. Glancing at it, she saw blood beginning to soak through her dress. She'd been shot. The redhead ripped yet another piece of her dress off and bandaged it, gritting her teeth as she yanked the bandage tight.

A creak echoed outside the doorway, and Natasha frowned, surveying the scene around her. Clint lay on the stairs, and four men were sprawled within the doorway. Four. Where was the fifth? She whirled so that she was facing out from the stairs, just in time to see a gun peek around the corner and fire.

The spy hit the deck, wincing as her cheek hit the floor with a loud 'crack!', but she hadn't been hit. Sneaking her pistol from its thigh holster, she darted through the doorway, firing three shots at the man. The first missed, but the last two slammed into his neck and head, killing him.

Natasha didn't waste any time, taking two quick strides across the floor to Clint's side. She pressed two fingers to his neck, frowning when she found his pulse slower and weaker than it had been before.

"Coulson, that evac better be ready when we get there." She said, her frown deepening when Clint suddenly shifted. A groan of discomfort left his lips, and that was when Natasha realized just how bad his condition was.

The redhead took a deep breath, preparing herself for what she knew had to happen. Reaching down, she hooked both hands under partner's armpits. Then she pulled, doing her best to lift him up and off of the last step. Her shoulder burned, and she felt fresh blood soaking through the bandage - but, when she finished, Clint was resting on solid ground. Natasha took another deep breath, her muscles already aching from lifting Clint's weight. There was no way that she would be able to carry him all the way to the safe house. She would have to improvise.

"I'll be right back," Natasha promised Clint.

Turning, she ran out the front door of the apartment building and surveyed the street. She finally found what she was looking for in the form of a small black car two houses down. It only took her a couple of minutes to hotwire the car, and then she drove straight toward the apartment building's front doors. Thankfully, the car was small enough to fit between the walls holding up the doors, and Natasha squealed to a stop next to the door leading to the stairway. She hurriedly got out and opened the back door before pushing the stairway door open. Rushing in, she checked Clint's pulse again before assuming the same position as before - hands under his armpits - and pulled him toward the car.

Once there, she lowered the blond back down to the ground and glanced from him to the car. Taking a deep breath, Natasha slung Clint's left arm over her shoulders and forced herself to her feet. She was supporting all of Clint's dead weight, but she managed to shuffle sideways and finally lower the injured man into the car. A little bit of rearranging found Clint propped up in the back seat, his feet behind the driver's seat.

Natasha slammed the door shut and got behind the wheel, not even bothering to buckle her seat belt. Tearing out of the apartment building, the redhead soon found herself pulling up to the safe house with almost no recollection of the drive over. The only thing that she remembered was the mantra that had drummed itself into her head. _Don__'__t let Clint die. Don__'__t let him die. Don__'__t let him be Red. Don__'__t let Clint die._

She was opening the rear door of the car when Coulson emerged from the safe house with a pistol, sweeping the area to make sure they were clear. When that was done he put the safety on and tucked it into the waistband of his pants directly below the small of his back.

The balding man hurried to the Widow's side, taking in Clint's features. The archer was too pale, a grey pallor already beginning to take over his face. Black and blue splotches were appearing over Clint's exposed skin, showing that he had not only been shot, but also pummeled in a torturous manner. Blood-soaked bandages encircled Clint's right hip and shin, and sweat covered his entire body. Even Coulson had to admit that the specialist didn't look good.

When she heard nothing from her handler, Natasha looked over at him. His face had paled, but he finally brought himself back into reality. "We can't risk moving him again without help. The ETA of the evac is only fifteen minutes now, so we'll just have to do what we can." Glancing at her, he frowned; Natasha knew that he had seen the bloody bandage. "You didn't say anything about being shot."

The redhead shrugged and then winced. "It happened after my last check in." She paused. "And it's nothing compared to Clint."

Coulson leveled his second specialist with a look that clearly said, "Now look here…"

"No injury that you get is nothing, Natasha," He said. "Make sure that you remember that."

There was silence for a few seconds before both simultaneously focused on their own responsibilities.

"It's too risky to attempt moving to him the house," Coulson muttered. "We'll have to cover him from here."

"I'll keep watch," The female agent replied. "Holler if you need anything."

"Great."

Minutes passed by slowly, and Natasha paced back and forth around the car as Coulson examined his specialist, her eyes peeled on the area around her. Other houses lined the street, but it was close to one in the morning and no one was out. The street lights and the lights inside the car were the only things illuminating the scene.

"No sign of any hostiles," Natasha reported. "How's Clint?"

"How much blood did he lose?" Coulson asked in response.

"A lot," The redhead answered. "He was shot twice, Coulson."

"I know that, Romanoff. But if anything, blood loss is my biggest worry right now."

It was silent for another minute before Coulson spoke again. "Shit."

"What?"

"By the looks of these bruises, I'd say Clint was beaten pretty badly, possibly with something other than that guy's fists. Coupled with the swelling, it looks as if we're dealing with internal bleeding. I thought he was deteriorating too quickly."

Natasha's head whipped up at the mention of internal bleeding, her eyes widening before she could control her emotions. "What's the extraction team's ETA?"

"Five minutes."

"Can we do anything?"

"With the internal bleeding? Not unless you're secretly a doctor. Otherwise? Yes. Help me rewrap these bandages."

"Not with Clint, with the ETA! Tell them to hurry their asses up!"

"They're doing their best," Coulson began, but Natasha interrupted him.

"No they're not not, Coulson. My partner is _dying_, and I can't do anything about it!"

"They are, Agent Romanoff," Phil replied, his eyes narrowing at his other specialist. "And I already told you what you can do."

They both glared at each other, one fiery and the other calm, before the redhead finally picked up a new bandage from the first aid kit Coulson had set out and gave it to her handler.

"Good," Coulson murmured. "Now get your head back in the game."

"It's never been out," Was Natasha's immediate response.

"Make sure you keep it that way."

They worked in silence for the next five minutes, and finally the quiet was broken by the sound of wind whipping back and forth between the rotating blades of a helicopter.

As soon as the chopper landed, SHIELD agents streamed toward the car. Two guided a stretcher between them, and before either Coulson or Romanoff could do anything Barton was being loaded into the helicopter.

"Status?" A medic asked Coulson.

"Barton has two gunshot wounds, on his right shin and hip, and suspected internal bleeding in his abdomen. Romanoff's got a gunshot wound in her shoulder and a nasty looking bruise on her cheek."

"And you, sir?"

"I'm fine."

* * *

Natasha looked up from her seat in Inova Fairfax Hospital's waiting room as a shadow fell over her. Above her stood Coulson, who had changed from his blood spattered suit into a new one and looked just as immaculate as he always did. Two Starbucks coffees were held in his hands, one of which was held out to her.

The redhead thought about what she herself looked like. Her dress was ripped in multiple places, about six inches had been ripped from the bottom, and a white bandage wrapped around her upper arm while a dark bruise covered her cheek. Blood coated her hands, dress, face, and even her hair, which was so tangled she doubted that she would escape cutting it.

"Natasha."

Coulson's voice drifted into her ears, and she realized that she had simply been staring at one of the cups in his hands.

"Are you going to take one, or should I save it for Barton's IV?"

Numbly, the only woman of the trio reached out and grasped the coffee, bringing it to her chest and breathing in the caffeinated smell. She didn't drink any, just attempting to savor its warmth.

Coulson settled in to the chair on her right, both prepared to wait all night for news if it meant that they would get to see their third piece alive again.

* * *

"Family of Clint Barton?"

The call jerked Natasha to her feet just after five in the morning, a bit like a marionette on strings and an echo of the puppet that Natalia had used to be. Coulson followed her as she approached the doctor. She would have run, but experience had taught her that appearing impatient in a hospital usually didn't pay off in her favor. So she stayed calm - on the outside.

"Yes? How is he?" Coulson questioned.

The doctor, her nametag reading 'Dr. Desmond', glanced at her notes for a second before responding.

"Mr. Barton should be fine after lots of physical therapy. We have him recovering in a private ward right now with two guards posted outside due to the nature of his injuries."

"Those guards won't be necessary," Natasha interrupted.

Dr. Desmond gave her a cursory glance before continuing. "If that's true, then you can take it up with the hospital security. Anyway, as you know Mr. Barton was shot two times, once in his shin and once in the hip area. Frankly, it's a miracle that none of his bones ended up broken, but thankfully none of them were. The worrying thing about his injuries was the beating that he sustained. Normally this wouldn't be the case, but from the shape of the bruises I would say that he wasn't just beaten with someone's fists. The beating was severe enough to cause trauma that damaged his liver, which became evident through the swelling that you noticed and, later, ecchymosis."

"Which was?" Natasha questioned.

"It's an area of deeply purple skin that comes about when the bleeding runs into the skin and soft tissues. In order to fix the internal bleeding, we went in and performed exploratory laparotomy, which is the sealing of leaking blood vessels with a heat probe or suture material. In this case we used a heat probe. Ultimately, like I said, Mr. Barton will be fine. I'm expecting a full recovery as long as he's careful and doesn't over exert himself."

"Can we see him?"

"He'll be sleeping, but yes," The doctor answered. "If you'll follow me."

As they walked, Coulson spoke to Natasha. "Are you sure you don't want to change first? Maybe get a shower?"

"Coulson, after this, I'm cutting my hair. So no, I'm not going to go change or shower. Besides, I want to kick Barton's ass for being so foolish as soon as possible."

Coulson fell behind a step and watched as she entered the room that Dr. Desmond was gesturing to.

"What was he foolish for, Natasha? Making you care for him?" He asked to the air.

_AN:_

_Okay, so if people were wondering, I changed the last sentence that Coulson said. I just wasn't happy with what he said before because it came out of __nowhere. Now it's fine. :)_

_I do hope that you all enjoyed this regardless of the huge amount of time I spent not writing it between the beginning and end._

_And I'm sure you all know the drill by now:_

_That box down there is looking lonely. Really, it is. Please review!_


End file.
